The Color Blue
by notsing
Summary: Charlie reflecting on his mother's grave. I definitely DO own Numb3rs...not really.


The Color Blue

His feet found the way easily, even though he hadn't really been here that often. It wasn't like him to visit, his analytical mind finding little comfort here. But coming home from Cambridge had inevitably brought up memories of his homecoming from Oxford, and Charlie had felt the void in his life.

Of course, coming back from England this time was totally different than the first time. For starters, he was married. And his life was so rich now, in comparison. When he came home from Oxford, Don had called to welcome him home, and they had exchanged a stilted, if polite, conversation. This time Don had been waiting at the airport, genuinely happy to see him. Not that there hadn't been any awkwardness this time as well; Charlie, on impulse, had hugged Don, and Don had hugged back before they self-consciously pulled apart.

After Charlie and Amita had slept off their jet-lag, Alan had thrown one of his legendary parties. It had been a joyous occasion, but Charlie had been achingly aware of who WASN'T there. Now, here he was, two days later, trying to fill that void. Amita had offered to come with him, but he needed to come alone. He would bring Amita sometime, but right now it was painful that the two most important women of his life would never meet.

He wondered if they would have liked each other. Mom, he knew, would have at least appreciated what a comfort Amita was to him. She talked his language, understood math without him having to simplify it for her.

But while Mom would have appreciated Amita, Charlie wasn't sure he had explained to Amita just how much Margaret Mann Eppes had done for him. It went beyond being his mother. She had devoted herself to Charlie, arranging her whole life around him, even to the point of moving clear accross the country while he attended Princeton. Charlie wondered, belatedly, if he had remembered to say thank-you.

But the obligation he owed his mother went deeper than that; she was the one who had first recognized his 'gift', and got him the help he so desperately needed. Charlie was convinced that his mother saved, if not his life, at least his sanity.

He couldn't remember when it had first been realized he was a genius, although he had been told stories about it. In fact, he could read about it, if he chose:

_Reporter: How about you, Margaret? When did you first realize just how smart Charlie is?_

_Margaret: Well, Charlie was two. We already knew he was smart, he started talking so early. But we didn't know how smart. Then, he was sitting on my lap while I was sorting some buttons, and I suggested we count the buttons. Most children that young will pick up a button and say 'One'. But Charlie immediately said, 'Eighteen.' I looked, and there were eighteen buttons! Two-year-olds can't count, especially not to double digits! So I tried putting different amounts of buttons out, and Charlie counted them correctly every time. I told my husband, Alan, we HAD to get Charlie tested._

_Reporter: How about you Alan? Do you have your own story?_

_Alan: Yes. I play chess, not seriously, but for fun. I don't compete. When Charlie was three, I went through a period where I studied old famous games. I got out my chessboard, set up the pieces, and studied the positions._

_Well, there is this famous match that was played in 1858 at the Paris Opera House. Paul Morphy played against Duke Karl and Count Isouard, in tandem. On the 16th move, Morphy made an absolutely brilliant queen sacrifice, that forced mate in the next move._

_So I had set the board up to where Morphy sacks the queen, when Charlie walked up to me. I gestured at the board, and asked 'What should the next move be?' Charlie studied the board for, I swear, ten seconds, than made the exact move Paul Morphy did, and said, 'Mate in one.' THAT'S when I knew!_

Charlie couldn't remember either incident, but he did remember the feelings of frustration and confusion he experienced as a small child. He wanted his mother, his father, his brother, to explain the wonderful things he could see so clearly, and was suspicious and angry when they didn't seem to know what he was talking about. As a mathmetician, he appreciated the need for language.

When Charlie was in 10th grade, his composition teacher had assigned a book report on a biography. Ms. Schmidt had asked Charlie to stay after class, and bluntly told him he couldn't do his report on anyone from the fields of math or science.

Charlie had protested, "What about the jocks? Can they do theirs on athletes?"

Ms. Schmidt smiled, "Except for your brother, I'll be delighted if the jocks turn in any report. Look Charlie, I'm not trying to punish you. But you're a GENIUS! Most teachers will never have the privilege of teaching someone as bright as you are. I feel like I would be short-changing you if I didn't try to expose you to something more than math and science."

She gave him a list of suggested people he could report on, and Charlie grumpily took it.

Later, when he complained to Mom, she disappointed him by siding with Ms. Schmidt. Scanning the list he brought home, Mom had immediately said, "You should read about Helen Keller."

"Why?"

"Because she interesting and inspiring. There's a great movie based on her called 'The Miracle Worker.' We'll rent it to get you started."

Charlie reluctantly agreed, and had at first wrinkled his nose when he saw the movie was in black and white. But he quickly got drawn into the story, and watching the movie actually turned into a family affair, with Dad and Don watching as well. Mom and Charlie were openly crying at the end, while Dad and Don tried to hide their tears.

Charlie had to admit that he was awed by what Helen Keller had accomplished. And he couldn't help but wonder if his mother had picked her out at random.

He and Helen Keller made kind of a point/counterpoint to each other. They were both trapped, and released through the ability to communicate. They both knew the pain of isolation. Helen hadn't been able to see or hear other people, while others hadn't been able to see what Charlie could.

To use a cute analogy (thanks Megan!), it was like Charlie could see in color, while everyone else only saw in black and white. How do you explain the color blue to someone who can't see it? How do you even have the word for the color blue if your early teachers-parents, older sibling-don't know it exists?

Charlie's first tutors hadn't so much taught him, as reassured him, yes, these colors are real! See, this is blue and red and yellow, the primary colors. And if we mix them, we get orange, green and purple.

Luckily, some of the more astute tutors assured him that his family wasn't trying to be difficult, but they could only see shades of grey.

It had been tremendously reassuring to be with his tutors. He had NEEDED them. Mom had been with him, every step of the way. She had sat through all of his lessons, trying to understand, trying to get just a glimpse of the color blue.

When she couldn't do it, she had bedeviled her son, demanding he do his best to explain it to her. Charlie hadn't wanted to. It would have been so easy to stay in the comforting world of academia, where everyone, even Marshall Penfield (annoying prick), spoke the same language. No need for analogies, cute or otherwise, to explain himself.

But he would have been cut off from his family. Because of Mom, because she insisted, he learned to build a bridge between the two worlds, just as Helen Keller had to do.

Thanks to this woman buried in this grave, his life was richer. Because of his mother, he was able to communicate, and work, with his brother. Charlie hoped, in some way, she was aware and happy about it; maybe even, as Dad claimed, proud.

He skimmed his hand over the headstone, "Thanks Mom."


End file.
